


wings of mercy

by wolf_zer0



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, My two favorite tags right there, No eggpire sorry!, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phil's only bio son is Wilbur in this, Reconciliation, Resurrection, Set after exile but before doomsday, Technoblade & Phil Watson Friendship (Video Blogging RPF), Video Game Mechanics, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), doomsday never happens because REASONS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29260035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_zer0/pseuds/wolf_zer0
Summary: Dream should have paid more attention to who was whitelisted.If he had, he might not have set the wheels of fate in motion.But back then, he was more concerned with playing with (breaking in) his puppets.Now he set the wolves free.  And they were out for blood.FreshEir joined the game.Sigrunner_09 joined the game.(AKA I'm pissed off at canon and decide to write my own version because I can.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Dream SMP Ensemble & Original Character(s), No Romantic Relationship(s), Original Female Character & Original Female Character, Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	1. entrances

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone in this is based on characters or personas, not actual content creators. Should any of the creators mentioned in this express any discomfort in this kind of thing, I will remove this and any other works of this nature immediately. All relationships are strictly platonic. Any and all grammar/editing mistakes and typos are my own and I apologize! Also (just as a precaution) - I do not give any reader permission to send to/talk about my works with the CC's mentioned. If they find it on their own, that's fine.

_The first time she hears the prayer, she ignores it._

_Many call for her aid, ask for her hand in tipping the scales.For her support to turn the tides.The prayers echo around her skull, consistent in their intensity and urgency.She wishes she could help them all._

_There is truth: balance must be kept.Outcomes tallied equally.Success or failure hang on a flip of a coin, and she does not stray from that path.She has seen what becomes of her brethren when they cast aside caution.Her duties often bring her close to spilled life, and she will never forget blood red eyes against blood red skies._

_She hears the prayers, listens to the pleas of a fledgeling nation buckling under the pressure of a relentless war, but does not move to aid them.The world they reside in is under the control of another of her kind, a being with a flare for dramatics she finds grating.She watches as the weave of time moves forward.Fate has plans for them, and she is not part of their tapestry._

_Until she hears the words spoken from a cornered general.She hears his speech, voice clear and steady despite the way his hands shake.Independence or death.Victory or nothing.It catches her interest.But she does not act.She does not offer aid, for her favor is not gifted easily.Her favor is earned._

_The general is not the one who earns her blessing.It is the second, a child who gives heart and soul and lives to a dream, who barters away that which he holds dear to secure victory, who does not ask for her assistance but snatches triumph with his determination alone, whom she chooses._

_She plans to guide him and his fledgeling nation away from the clutches of Chaos and War, intoa brighter future.Her plans are delayed when her brethren call for her aid, when innumerable lives hang in the balance.The small world and the small country and the small prayers are forgotten.She does what her duty requires, but when she turns her gaze back on the boy, she sees a country in chaos._

_She sees madness lurking at the edges of the once clear-eyed general’s gaze, sees the fracturing of trust between once tightly held bonds.When her closest companion whispers to her of prayers spoken in the dead of night, in a dark ravine and a darkened city, cries for comfort and safety, she knows she must act. **They** must act._

_The world is closed off save for those personally granted entrance, and the two place their names before the creator’s gaze.Her initial blessing remains, granting her favored his goal, but it is not to last.They wait for entrance, and watch the general burn the sheet music to ash.Watch War himself tear the fragile world to pieces.Watch child soldiers crumble before the weight of Gods and Men alike.And finally, finally, when the dust has settled and the battle is over, the creator allows them entry._

_Stepping into the world, they feel the anguish, the suffering, the pain and rage and sorrow that bleeds from the very earth.They see the aftermath of War and Death and Chaos.And they know they cannot interfere.Their presence is not strong enough, their influence not great enough.They cannot help._

_Not yet._

_So they keep their presence unknown.Melt into the shadows and hide in plain sight.They avoid the patchwork nation, and the hidden cottage, and the growing stone monument.They find a snow covered forest far from the rest of the world and claim it as their own.Claim it as a safe haven. Hide it from prying eyes and build._

_Their plans are large, and the hall is larger.As they work, they hear a new voice added to the chorus of cries for safety.For home._

_Their work is finished just as her first favored is cast out of the home he bled and died for.As Chaos tangles the president tighter in his web.As the newest citizen finds himself adrift and alone.They feel the threads that weave between the players, inky black and sickly, and know the time for action as come._

_For Victory and Security do not easily forgive.Nor easily forget._

_They tip the scales and change the weave of fate forever._


	2. isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy's alone in exile.
> 
> Until he isn't.
> 
> Until he is.
> 
> Until he _isn't_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to KillRagnar666 for recognizing Sigrun and Eir as the names of valkyries!
> 
> I wasn't planning on updating this so soon, but I have brainrot and it goes brrrrrrrr.
> 
> TW for: abuse, suicidal ideation, gaslighting, manipulation. It's the Exile arc folks. Stay safe!

Exile fucking sucks.That’s the thought that constantly rattles around Tommy’s head every day he wakes to see ratty white fabric above his head and rough dirt below his body. 

Every day is the same.Wake up hungry and alone.Leave the tnret to find silence.Feel any hope that someone (anyone) would be waiting for him die.Shrug off the sadness and get to work.Wait for Dream to show up.Hand over anything he’s gathered since the last time Dream visited.Watch it all go up in a burst of fire and smoke.Follow Dream’s orders in the hopes he earns a reward.Fail and go to bed hungry, alone, bruised, and bloody.Fall asleep with dried tears on his cheek and wish for a better tomorrow.Rinse and repeat. 

Sometimes things change.Sometimes he wakes to saltwater filling his lungs.Sometimes Dream lets him keep some things.Sometimes (very rarely) Ghostbur is there, voice echoing joyfully around the island.But the routine remains constant. 

He expects nothing different as he wakes up, sore from the day prior and haunted by phantom fists and screaming.He pokes his head out of the tnret, expecting to see the same view as every other day before. 

There’s someone on the beach. 

He blinks.Scrubs at his eyes.Pinches the skin on his forearm. _(Ignores the way it stays peaked for far too long)._ The person doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t recognize her.She’s seated on the sand, leaning back on her hands and legs outstretched as she stares out into the gray waves.A thick braid of white-blond hair hangs down her back as the cold wind ruffles the white fur lining the hood of her navy blue parka.His mind flashes images of pink and red and pain and blood before he can stop it.His breath stutters in his chest when he sees the stranger’s head move.

She looks at him, pale eyes locking with his.He sees scars along her jaw, across her nose, down her neck and disappearing under a gray thick sweater, and he forces back the sounds of fireworks, the twang of an arrow, the shrill screams of Withers.As she looks at him and he looks at her, his brain is running on overdrive. 

_Is this some kind of test?Dream’s gonna be here eventually, is he supposed to run her off before he gets back?Dream said no one wanted to see him, said that he wasn’t worth visiting.That he was the root of everyone’s problems.Maybe she was here to watch him, make sure he doesn’t do something he’s not supposed to.Like go to the L’manberg.Or keep his items.Dream said the others would try to kill him if they found him.Dream was his protector.His friend.He should leave before she kills him.But she’s not moving.Is she real?She has to be a hallucination.There’s no way someone’s actually here.Yeah, that’s it.She’s just a figment of his imagination._

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”He nearly jumps out of his skin when she speaks.The stranger’s eyebrows are quirked slightly, but her eyes are still blank as she turns back to look at the waves.

“Wh-” His voice catches in his throat, rough and gritty from not using it.No need to speak anymore.Dream always tells him how annoying his chatter is.The headaches he causes.But he can’t quite smother his curiosity.“What are you doing?”

“Watching the ocean.”She doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t know what to do.Dream’s not here, and he doesn’t know what to do.He stays frozen in the entrance of the tnret, hands shaking, as the silence stretches to its breaking point.It digs under his skin, twitching and buzzing, and he hates it.Hates how he craves the attention.How he hordes the sounds of voices.How he desperately wants more.

He stands, watching the stranger the whole time.She doesn’t move.Pale eyes stay glued to the horizon.Wisps of hair pulled loose from the braid float around her face.He takes a step, then another, and another when she still doesn’t move.He doesn’t want to turn his back on her, still shaken from his last punishment, but he needs to start working.Dream doesn’t like it if he stays inside all day.Something about idle hands and all that.He doesn’t remember.He doesn’t remember much anymore. 

As he goes about his routine, he almost forgets about the stranger on the beach.Almost.He catches glimpses of navy blue from the corner of his eye, and swears he feels eyes on his back sometimes.Whenever he turns to look, though, she’s always facing the ocean.

She’s gone when Dream comes calling, and he’d be lying if a small part of himself doesn’t shrivel up at the sight of the empty beach.He doesn’t know what he expected, really.Of course she wasn’t real.He doesn’t even think to mention her as he dumps his meager supplies in the hole and tries not to flinch at the explosion.

(He doesn’t see the footprints in the sand.He doesn’t see the soft blanket tucked in the bottom of a chest.He doesn’t see a pair of glowing eyes in the nearby forest, narrowing at the figure cloaked in poison green.)

Life goes on, but the routine starts to change.The stranger shows up every day, sitting on the beach near the tnret and watching the ocean.Some days she scribbles in a journal, others she pages through a book, but she’s always there.She disappears when Dream comes, but she always comes back.Not like Tubbo.Not like Ghostbur. ~~Not like Wilbur.~~ He doesn't know when he starts to think of her as "his friend" instead of "the stranger". He doesn't think he really cares that much.

He starts to sit on the beach with her.Not close, never close.He doesn’t want this one safe place to be taken too.Snatched away in a fit of rage.They sit in silence, watching the water lap at the shore.He doesn’t mind this silence.He chose this silence.It’s not suffocating or choking.It feels nice.

A question nags at him as the days go on and the new routine continues.He can’t quite stamp out the last bits of neediness, the bubbling desire for people.The words sit heavy on his tongue, and he doesn’t quite know how to make them come out.He sits, stewing in the silence that starts to grow more and more oppressive.

“Eir.”He nearly knocks himself over with how quickly he turns to face her.She glances at him from the corner of her eye.A smile quirks the corner of her lips.“My name. It’s Eir.”

He can’t quite stifle a snort.“The fuck kinda name is Air?” He tenses, waiting for the strike. Dream never liked it when he talked back. She scoffs, no heat behind it.

“Not ‘Air,’ Eir.With an E.”She shifts, stretching her hands out, and he tries to hide the flinch.“How about you?”

“What?”

“Your name, dumbass.Only fair since I gave you mine.”He hears the dry amusement in her voice, searches for a single hint of anger in her form, but finds nothing.She is relaxed, eyes dancing with warmth.

“‘M Tommy.”She hums, turning back to the waves.He follows suit.

“Better than Blondie, I guess.”He bristles slightly, but a smile is tugging at his mouth.The hole in his chest starts to fill with something.

Talking comes easier after that.Eir is nice to him.Doesn’t mention when he stutters over his words, when he interrupts himself constantly, when he hops from one topic to another like a squirrel overdosed on caffeine.He can’t stop himself.After months and months of suffocating, choking silence, the dam in his brain is broken and he lets everything spill out.

She listens.Fires back teasing insults.Adds to his most ridiculous bits.Makes him feel almost normal again.(He tries to ignore the way her fur trimmed hood reminds him of pits and pain.Or the way her black gloves remind him of buttons and bombs.)

Once he starts talking, he can’t stop.He didn’t have much of a filter _before_ , but now it seems that it’s completely gone.He rambles about the wars, his first exile, Wilbur’s spiral, L’manberg’s destruction, Tubbo’s betrayal.He spills his secrets to her, about standing above the lava in the nether and wanting to jump, about waking up in the ocean and not wanting to swim to the surface, about the nightmares that won’t leave him alone.About Dream his friend, Dream his tormentor, Dream his warden. 

He talks until he has no more words left.He expects to see pity in Eir’s eyes, expects her to leave and never come back now that she knows how pathetic he truly is.He doesn’t expect understanding.He doesn’t expect compassion.He doesn’t expect the hug. 

(He shatters completely in the arms of a hidden God.A God who vows to let no more harm come to a broken boy. A God who wants to carry him home, but knows he needs to take the first painful steps himself.)

He doesn’t know why he kept the hidden stash.Some part of him had hoped Dream would never find it and he could keep something for himself.A small, loud piece of him wished he would find it and just end this stupid fucking game.Why he kept it doesn’t really matter anymore.Dream found it.And everything was gone.Logstedshire was rubble.The tnret was ash.The island was pockmarked with craters.The beach ( _their_ beach) was destroyed. 

He hasn’t seen Eir in days.The last person he had left had abandoned him.He doesn’t know why it took her so long to realize he wasn’t worth the effort.

Tommy lays in a heap at the edge of the sand, bleeding and broken, and cries.Heavy sobs that shake his entire body and leave him gasping for air.He can’t take it anymore.He can’t keep fighting for something that has no value.No worth.Nobody wanted him. 

He heaves himself up, standing on shaky, uneven footing, and starts building straight up.He builds and builds and builds until he runs out of stone.It’s quiet this far up.The stars continue to shine.The wind buffets him, nearly pushing him off the top.He doesn’t know why he resists. 

He bunches his hands in his pockets, taking one last look over the horizon.His fingers catch on a piece of paper.He doesn’t know what it is.He unfolds it. 

It’s a letter. 

_Hey kiddo._ He chokes on a sob.He recognizes Eir’s messy scrawl. 

_I’m sorry I haven’t been around to visit recently.Something came up back at my place and I had to take care of it.But I wanted to let you know, if you ever get tired of that dumpy ass tent and that sad little beach, I’ve got an open room and a bunch of cows that need tending to.You’d have to put with living with me and my friend, but I think it’s a pretty decent deal.You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but our door is always open._

_Hope I’ll see you soon._

_Eir._

There are a string of numbers scrawled beneath, nearly illegible but he can make them out anyway.Coordinates.He knows they aren’t far off.

He makes his choice.He jumps.

He drags himself out of the water, gathers what's left, and starts walking.

_(Eir physically deflates when she feels Tommy heading closer.Her hand loosens from where she has her axe in a white-knuckle grip.She waves off Sigrun’s concern and runs a shaky hand through her hair.One finally on their road to recovery.But there’s still more to do.More still need to be found.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to anyone who decided to read this! I really wasn't planning on posting this at all but it seems like at least some people are enjoying it. 
> 
> Sneak peak for next chapter: L'manberg is dying. Tubbo, and by extension Ranboo, refuses to die with it. (Sigrun offers them a way out.)


	3. responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo's trying, but nothing seems good enough.
> 
> L'Manberg is sinking, and he's desperately trying not to drown.
> 
> Someone finally throws him a life ring.
> 
> _(Ranboo grabs hold, too.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I wasn't gonna update frequently, but I can't help it. This story is helping me vent and I will not apologize.
> 
> Time for some more traumatized teenagers to get the hell outta dodge. Recovery is coming very soon, I promise!
> 
> Also I hate dialogue so it might be a little clunky.
> 
> TW: slight panic attack (not described in detail)

The Presidency is heavy.Tubbo struggles under the weight, under the expectations of everyone around him.Every day feels like another pound added to his shoulders, slowly crushing him into nothing. 

He moves through the days in a haze, not really taking anything in.He can feel Quackity’s, Ranboo’s and Fundy’s eyes when he enters the cabinet room, Niki’s frown when he checks on the town, Ghostbur’s furrowed brow when he wanders through the residential area, but he doesn’t truly retain anything.Everything seems to wash over him, threatening to pull him down down down.

The only thing he can remember is the look on Tommy’s face, the feeling of ash on his lips, the fury in everyone else’s voices.The relaxed shoulders of Dream.

He knows he made the right choice.The good of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

(But he still can’t sleep.He stays curled in bed, wide awake, clutching a shining compass in his fist.He tries, and fails, to ignore the streaks of moisture on his cheeks.)

When Quackity calls for a meeting, he drags himself into the room and falls into his chair.If he were more coherent, more aware, _(if he cared just a little bit more)_ , he might have noticed Ranboo’s nervous glances, Fundy’s flattened ears, Quackity’s simmering anger sooner.But he isn’t.So he doesn’t.

The water recedes slightly when he hears _vengeance_ and _execution_ and _Technoblade_.Ranboo’s eyes flick between Quackity and him, like he expects Tubbo to say something.Do something.But when he sees the hardened resolve in Quackity’s eyes, the slight curl on Fundy’s lip, he swallows any protests. 

He feels swept out to sea as they continue to plan, arguing over timing and placements and preparations.He thinks he should be angry, should be joining with the others, but he just can’t.He knows Technoblade had taken his second life during that godforsaken festival, but he’s just so _tired_.Tired of endless fighting, tired of walking along the razor’s edge, tired of the stupid fucking cycle they are stuck in.He stands and almost runs from the room, not caring about the stares he knows are following him.

(Ranboo jumps up and follows, ignoring the outraged shouts from the others.He may have failed Tommy, but he will not fail another friend.)

He finds himself at the bench.His breath catches in his chest as he fights back tears.He was never supposed to be here alone.But he is.And it’s his fault. 

He all but collapses on it and buries his head in his hands, trying desperately to bring himself back in control.It feels like his head is stuffed with cotton, everything uncomfortably present but so far away.Distantly, he feels a hand touch his back, hears a calm voice floating through the air.He can’t make out what they’re saying through the haze, but he latches on to the rise and fall of their words. 

Slowly, slowly, his breathing calms.His vision clears.He hears the voice talking quietly, coaxing him back carefully.At first, he thinks it’s Niki but realizes the accent is different.He lifts his head.

The stranger is seated next to him, gold-brown eyes full of concern.Dark hair sweeps over her left eye, covering it slightly.She’s wearing a long brown coat with a warm yellow scarf wrapped around her throat.He’s never seen her before, but he doesn’t feel all that nervous.He doesn’t feel much of anything at all.

“You back with me now?”He turns away, biting his cheek.“I’ll take that as a yes, I guess.” She pulls away and leans back to watch the sunset.

Silence stretches between them as Tubbo tries to ignore the fact that a stranger is sitting on _their_ bench.He should chase her off, protect one of the last things he has left of happier times, but he can’t find the energy. 

“What do you want?” He manages to grit out, voice harsh.There’s no attempt at happiness, no bubbly persona to hide behind.No President Tubbo, leader of a fracturing country.Just Tubbo, a tired teenager carrying the weight of the world. 

“Just passing through.Seeing the sights and all that.”He hums noncommittally.“Are you okay?”

Time stops.He turns slowly, eyes wide.The stranger looks back at him.There’s no judgement in her face.No pity or patronizing smirk like he sees so often.Just pure, honest concern.

“Why do you care?”He hates how small is voice sounds.How it shakes at the slightest sign of worry. 

“I think a lot of people would care if someone’s having a panic attack in the middle of the street.”She says it like it’s a fact.Like she’s saying the sky is blue.Like she isn’t in the middle of the Dream SMP.

“You’d be surprised…” Her eyebrows furrow at his tone. 

“Look, I know we’ve never spoken before, but if you want to get something off your chest, I’m willing to listen.” 

His mouth is dry.He can’t burden another person with his problems.He needs to suck it up and deal with it, like everyone else does.

“If that’s what ‘everyone else does’, you all need a therapist in here.Gods above, this place is a mess.”Oh shit.He cringed.Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut.“And if you’re worried about burdening me with your problems, there is the fact that I asked.I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t at least a little willing to take on some extra baggage.” She threw her arms out.“Hit me with your best shot, kid.”

He hesitates for a beat. Two. And then he breaks.Lets out everything.Every battle he’s fought, every scar he’ received, every mistake he’s made.It rushes out of him like a wave, threatening to take him farther out to sea than he could possibly swim. 

He tells her about the Festival, about the feeling of fireworks burning his skin.He tells her about the presidency, about the feeling of drowning on dry land as he fights to keep L’manberg afloat.He tells her about the decision that haunts him at night, the broken look in his best friend’s (can he still even call him his friend after what he’s done?) eyes as Dream guides him beyond the horizon.

He’s panting by the time he finishes.He tenses as he turns his head to look at the stranger, expecting a familiar condescending look or worse, laughter. 

She looks thoughtful.Like she heard every word he said, actually listened, and is considering what to say next.No one’s ever looked at him like that.No one except…

She hums, shifting slightly on the bench.“Do you mind if I give you some advice?Only if you want to, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything.”

He swallows, voice shakier than he’d like.“Sure, I guess.”

“If I’m being totally honest, and I don’t want to seem too harsh here, I think this place died a long time ago.And I think you know that’s true” 

He blinks once.Twice. Three times. His mouth was dry.His voice was gone.

“You said the first president, Wilbur was it?He founded this place to be an escape from tyranny.But then it turned into the very thing you all fought against.I think, and this is just based on what you’ve told me, that even before the election and the bombing and everything else, your L’manberg died and has been festering ever since.None of you seem to want to admit it.Because admitting it would mean that you lost.

“Losing’s never fun.I know that, probably better than most.But isn’t it better to admit defeat and move on than continue to pretend and stay stuck in the past?

“I mean, everyone’s so entrenched in the past of this place.You’re trying to think of the future, and I applaud that, but it all seems to comes back to the beginning.You all have so much history here, and history means nostalgia.”She gives him a sad smile.“Nostalgia isn’t always a great thing when you’re trying to lead.Makes you do things you probably wouldn’t do otherwise.” 

“Like exiling your best friend?”The words taste bitter.She grimaces. 

“Yeah. Like that.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” He surprises himself with the sudden anger that explodes from him.He turns to look at the sunset, gesturing emphatically.“Am I just supposed to sit here and go down with a sinking ship? Stay at the helm when the whole thing crashes and burns?Or am I supposed to just abandon everything _we’ve_ — I’ve ever worked for?Leave and never come back?” 

“If it means saving yourself from drowning, yes.”

The words are soft.Gentle.But not pitying.When he looks at her, her eyes are soft too.

“You can’t carry everything on your own.No one can.Sometimes, the best thing to do is drop whatever it is that’s making you sink and leave.Even if it hurts.Even if it feels like you're supposed to keep struggling.It doesn’t make you weak, or a coward, or whatever anyone else tries to say.”She places a steady hand on his shoulder.Warmth spreads from the spot throughout his whole body.He hasn’t felt warm in so long.“It means you know what really matters in the end.It’s not a slowly rotting country, or an empty tile, or even a piece of land. It's you. _You_ are far more important than any one of those things.”

“Am I really though?”She raises an eyebrow.“I’m the one who caused all of this.Because of me I—”

“No.”Her voice is firm, unyielding. _Certain_.His jaw snaps shut with a click.“You aren’t the problem.You never were.And from what I can gather, neither is your friend.”He flinches.“Both of you made stupid mistakes and paid the price.But the way I see it, mistakes don’t mean you’re the problem.The problem, the **_real_** problem, is the people who’re trying to make you into something you’re not.Force you into roles that don’t fit.The real problem is the people who see you as tools, as chess pieces, instead of as _people_.”

His shoulders shake under her hand as he fights back tears.He isn’t sure what to think.She’s a total stranger, a traveller passing through.But she sounds so sure, and everything she’s said has made _sense_.His head spins and he tries not to feel sick.She sighs heavily through her nose, before removing her hand to rifle through her pockets.He misses the warmth already. 

She makes a soft noise of triumph and pulls a battered notebook and pencil out of a coat pocket before scribbling something on one of the pages.She tears the page out and offers it to him.

“What are…”. His voice dies as he shakily reaches for it.

“I have a house a little ways from here.Well, less like a house and more of a compound… Y’know what, that doesn’t matter.A friend and I have a place, a safe place, and a couple of rooms to spare.If you decide that you need to leave, or if you just need a change of scenery, you’re always welcome.Even if it’s just for a few days, to get yourself resituated.”

The paper crumples slightly in his fist.The written numbers are clear and stark against the white of the page. 

She pushes herself up, groaning slightly and stretching her back out.“I think I’ve burned enough daylight and should head home.It was nice to meet you, kid.”

“Tubbo.”

“Hmm?”

“My name’s Tubbo.I never actually told you.”

“Oh, well then.”Her eyes crinkle when she smiles.“It was really nice to meet you, Tubbo.”

“Yeah, uh…”

“Sigrun.”His mouth falls open and she barks a short laugh.“I know, it’s kinda weird.But my friends call me Sig.”

“Friends?”That same warmth sits in his chest.

Her face is warm when she looks down at him.“Friends.”

She waves goodbye, and saunters away, coat flapping slightly in the wind.He sits on the bench, turning everything she said over and over in his mind.He looks at the jukebox beside him, and the sunset before him, and makes a choice.

(A God hiding in plain sight passes a pair of shaking bushes and ignores the eyes that track her as she goes.A smile ghosts over her face and she tries to keep her gait steady and even as she walks.All that she can do now is wait.)

It’s surprisingly easy to write the letter.Even with all the spelling mistakes, he breezes through each sentence and signs it with little fanfare.He changes out of his suit and dons a familiar shirt.He wraps a red bandanna around his wrist and hangs the compass over his heart.There’s no going back now.Where he expected to find a tight ball of anxiety and fear, he only feels light.Freed. 

Everything he can pack is packed.He leaves a few things behind, things he thinks the others might want to keep as mementos.(He leaves behind the bench and the jukebox, as a kind of reminder and a warning).If all goes the way he thinks, he’ll never come back again.It doesn’t make him all that sad. 

He places the letter on the desk in the White House before slipping out silently.The streets of L’manberg are silent and empty as he walks, head held high and back straight. 

He almost misses the quiet tap-tap-tap of footsteps behind him.Almost.

He turns suddenly and comes face to face with Ranboo.His ears are pulled back, his tail lashing behind him.His hands are clutching the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.His mismatched eyes are wide and fearful.Like he thinks Tubbo will send him away.

He doesn’t.

He holds out a hand.Ranboo, eyes widening even more, grasps it with his, careful of his claws. 

They leave the sinking ship to rot.

They will not be its next victims.

_(Sigrun isn’t at all shocked when she feels two heading their way instead of one.The whole time she spent with Tubbo, she felt the other lurking one in the trees, listening to every word.Eir gives her a look as she hurries upstairs, her hands filled with blankets and bandages and bottles, but she ignores her and continues to watch their newest additions for a short while.When she’s certain they’re safely on their way, she turns on her heel, listening to her friend fuss over the first to arrive, and starts prepping rooms.There’s so much to do and all the time in the world to do it.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (grabs all of the minors on the server and runs) **MY KIDS NOW FUCKERS!!!**
> 
> The next chapter's gonna hurt, I'm not gonna lie. But it gets better! Anyone in the mood for an emotional clingy duo reunion? >:3
> 
> Also, since Ranboo and Tommy seem to have decided that their characters no longer have a genuinely good relationship, I'm taking it upon myself to give us what could have been. Be the content you want to see in the world and all that good stuff.
> 
> Sneak peak of next chapter: Three scarred and scared kids are reunited, and things get very emotional very quickly. Healing starts. There are also cows and bees.

**Author's Note:**

> Living vicariously through ocs is better than therapy /hj
> 
> I'm not expecting this to get ANY attention but I decided fuck it, I'm gonna write the most self indulgent thing and post it because there are no rules anymore! The next part in FSIS should be done soon, but I was getting burned out and needed something new to work with.
> 
> Please don't expect this to update frequently, as I'm treating this as a palate cleanser while working on my other fics. Anyway, hope you like this!
> 
> (Also, anyone who can figure out what my OC's names were inspired by first gets a shoutout and a virtual cookie! Here's a hint: Much like a certain pig-man, I have a fondness for mythology. However, my interest strays a little further north than his.)


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